


and we're trying to be faithful

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [7]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bisexual Characters, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inglis calls Liz into his office to talk about her mental health. The conversation veers somewhat. </p><p>(Five times Charles and Richard kissed, and one time they didn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh godddd I swear I'm still working on the last chapter of Two Opposite Rights, but this first chapter got finished ahead of it. Sorry about that!
> 
> This is the conversation referenced in chapters 6 and 10 of TOR, though it's not required reading. 
> 
> Title is from 'Hero' by Regina Spektor.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Sit down."

The first time Liz had stepped into Richard's office, the main thing she'd noticed was the colour. It was like _her_ colour, darker, deeper.

Maybe her temporarily dulled senses are to blame, but the walls are starker now, a greenish-grey in dim sunlight. They’re definitely more bare. Richard’s portrait and all of his personal effects have been removed...save for one, she notes. It's the picture of him and Inglis. A pang of sorrow resurfaces at the sight, and she quickly averts her gaze.

"So," Inglis begins warily.

Liz flashes a weak smile as she sinks into a chair. The Commissioner seems to try to smile back yet can't quite put in the emotional investment.

"How are you settling in?" he asks.

"Good," she answers, remembering not to mention the fridge. "Uh. You?"

"Good. All things considered."

The subsequent pause isn't what she's used to, weighty but non-antagonistic. She determines her current position. As far as she knows, she doesn't want anything from Inglis, so she isn't vying for any of the power here. That puts her at a disadvantage, and she's close to impulsively reacting to the fact when he bluntly says:

"Finn told me that you're bipolar."

Finn, the predictable _ass_. That's how he repays her hinting at it, that small gesture of trust; and this is how Inglis will repay the biggest act of selflessness she's shown in her life. On the constantly-fluctuating internal scale, Liz's defensiveness jumps from a 20 to a 100.

"Oh, yeah, and what'd he advise you to do about it?" she demands. "Scold me for my lack of transparency? Requisition a body cam for me to wear on the clock, maybe a paper cone for my neck so I won't scratch my eyes out? Or are the two of you going straight for blackmail again?"

"He just agreed that I should talk to you."

"Right." Her fingers wiggle in air quotations. "'Talk'."

"And he said it without that shitty scheming smirk of his. It's okay,” Inglis says. It takes extra time for her to register his reassuring tone through his frustration, his peacefully-folded hands and brow furrowed in concern as well as annoyance. "We couldn't fire you even if we wanted to. Legally speaking, plus we'd risk you publicly combating us."

"I'm thrilled I'm such a valued member of the team."

Sensing that this approach isn't working, Inglis changes gears. "Did you know Richard had...issues?"

"He never told me." Amid her growing resentment, Liz recalls her first face-to-face meeting with Richard, ideas ricocheting, how easily they had envisioned the future until reality blurred, the way Richard had leaned in at the end - was he tempted to kiss her, even then? - and said _we're two of a kind, Liz Garvey_. "I knew."

”Look around Scotland Yard. Most of us may not have official diagnoses, but we’re not exactly a mentally healthy bunch. Finn is anxious and obsessive. Tom is anxious and struggles to read social cues. Sharon struggles to read social cues and stays fixated on certain concepts for long amounts of time. I can go on, if you need me to.”

“What about you?” she asks, near-accusatory, on reflex.

“I’m perfectly sane," he deadpans. "Besides how I willingly surround myself with the rest of you." 

"I hope this is headed somewhere other than me storming out in tears and strangling Finn with the corded mouse he still uses." Probably not the best case for her stability, but hey, if you've hit rock bottom...

"I suggest that you follow your policy. I won't force you to tell anyone else, much less your whole department. But you have to be honest whenever something is wrong. Even if that means Finn or Mia stepping in. Even if it means being second-guessed or temporarily held back in some way. I don't believe in pitting my people against each other, or applying too much pressure. I trust that you know how to manage your disorder, and if you don't, we'll all work together on a solution. Well, sans Sharon." 

Liz waits for the _and..._  leading to a list of patronizing stipulations, the accusations that she's endangered everyone by withholding information. 

"Is that it?" she questions. 

"That's it," Inglis confirms. "Send me any relevant links or...PowerPoint presentations or...TED Talks."

In minutes, she's gone from grappling with rage to almost sputtering with gratitude. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"No problem."

They smile at each other again, more sincerely now, until it becomes weird. Her wandering gaze falls on a cast-iron horse figurine on Inglis' desk.

"Is that - sorry, sir, I'm not super focused today - is that Richard's? It looks familiar." 

 _Something_  flashes on his face, not anger at all, sadness and another emotion she can't readily identify. "It's mine. From my old office. But he had two of his own."

Inexplicably, Liz is compelled to stay seated. "Since I'm already here, is there anything I can help you with? Any potential stories? Concerns? Skeletons in the closet that need airing?" 

Now he's staring at the horse figurine. "There might be, actually."

 _Shit._ She hadn't been expecting that. Inglis clears his throat, refolds his hands. Her heart races.

“It isn't...major," he claims. "I've learned it's best to have all our bases covered, and be...truthful about things. Richard's come up a lot in the past few minutes. So. I'm not a superstitious person, but that could be a sign."

"Yeah," she agrees, frowning.

"When we were younger, we…”

The Commissioner trails off. The silence is oppressive. Someone's watch ticks too loud. Liz eyes him with increasing urgency each second he doesn't finish his sentence; he returns her stare pointedly, as if that communicates everything.

"You didn't sleep with him, right?" she jokes.

Inglis blinks.

“ _Fuck_.”

“We kissed five times over twenty-seven years,” he snaps. “Jesus! It's not like I was ever another notch in his bedpost. Metaphorically. He wasn’t the type to keep track.”

She gulps, cursing the involuntary waver of her voice when she can speak again. "Were either of you married yet?”

“Only once."

Liz's mind is lapsing into a numbed panic. She foresees the trashy journalist who'll discover this. The headlines. The _tweets._ "And you think this could be a problem."

"Not really," he says, which does little to assuage her worry. "It was in public twice, but we were alone and it was dark the second time. I'm just thinking...surveillance cameras. Jokes from old colleagues turning into a fast way for them to make cash. And I don't want Jen and the kids to go through any more stress."

"Does Sharon know?" Probably not, she realises belatedly, or she would've used it during the final stages of her campaign.

"No," Inglis replies, following a moment's contemplation. "Even if she did, she wouldn't talk. Not now. And Richard was fucking sacred to her."

"Finn?"

Inglis rolls his eyes. "Oblivious. I wasn't exactly subtle, either." 

"You'd better start from the beginning."

He fixes her with a withering glare - strikingly similar to Richard's after she'd asked about his trysts with the physio. "Do you want a rundown on intensity and duration?"

"This is part of my job, part of protecting you. You need to tell me," she argues, squirming in her chair, "in case you missed anything that could come back to bite us. Like if you made out in front of a publishing house or a tour bus."

They stare each other down for several seconds. Liz raises an eyebrow; Inglis sighs, defeated.

"We met on the van in 1987..."

* * *

**1.**

Five young cops shuffle off the van in awkward silence, unarmed and unfamiliar aside from the name tags. A white officer tries to break the ice by casually calling PC Inglis a racial slur, seemingly under the impression that will instantly ingratiate him with _someone_. Unsurprising. Unforgivable. Catching the anger flaring on Charles’ expression, the pasty-faced man tells him to “lighten up or whiten up”, and is evidently very pleased with himself.

“Shut up and apologise,” another white officer snaps in a strong Irish accent, before Charles can retort. He pauses to reconsider his words. “Not in that order.”

The first guy snorts and turns away. “Whatever, O’Potatofucker.”

It takes three close-protection-trained officers plus the driver to extract PC Miller’s fist from one of the man’s eye sockets, among other areas of hostile body contact. Admittedly, Charles doesn’t put his heart into it.

Later, Charles waits until the rest are arguing over something else. He extends a hand towards Miller. Miller cocks his head and stares at the outstretched palm as if he's weighing his options, and Charles reflects that a single act of righteous fury does not make a saint, that he could literally be putting trust in the wrong hands.

Then Miller grips his hand, tight, and pumps it enthusiastically. Breaks into a grin. Charles wants to keep his face carefully neutral but can't help smiling, too. 

From that point on, their friendship is a natural fit. Charles has largely been a loner since he completed training, and Richard is new in London. They apply for the Mounted Branch together. In 1988, they pass their final tests and are assigned horses named Delta and Ajax, respectively. Mostly, they do crowd control. Any arrests they make are, of course, on foot with the assistance of strategically-positioned horses. 

One day, their unit is on a high visibility patrol. The two of them happen to be separated from the main group when an alert comes through Richard's radio, about an armed robbery very near their location.

" _A blonde white male wearing a dark green turtleneck - "_

The radio crackles. Out of the corner of Charles' eye, he sees a man exactly matching that description: brisk pace, casting furtive glances, hands stuffed into the bulging pockets of his jeans. He has Delta slowly walk towards the suspect, in what he figures is an inconspicuous fashion.

Richard follows, hissing, "Charlie, he just shot someone and we're on  _horseback_ , don't -" 

_"- 'nt engage, wait for Armed Response - "_

Charles can barely hear them through Delta's hooves pounding as he picks up speed, the fastest he's ever gone outside training or exercises. It's a plausible excuse for later, he thinks, confident that there _will_ be a later. He unhooks his truncheon from his belt. The suspect whirls around, cries out in alarm, and aims a pistol at Charles.

Maybe in another universe, fate is unkind. Here, in a stroke of luck, Delta rears back and in his panic suspect drops the gun, which does not fire, which clatters harmlessly onto the pavement. Charles swings his truncheon, and the man is imbalanced without any major injuries. He dismounts, and Richard is behind him to hold their horses' reins while he affixes the handcuffs. Richard grumbles the entire time; Charles doesn't pay attention.

A police car soon arrives to haul the suspect away. Charles sends them off with a cheery wave. He turns, expecting to exchange triumphant banter, and instead confronts Richard's stormy eyes. 

"Wanker," he mutters angrily with a dark undertone of affection, pulling Charles in by the collar. "Absolute utter arse-licking cock-headed _motherfucker_."

Charles laughs, perhaps not the appropriate response to Richard's distress, but he's giddy from victory and downright delighted to be alive. He opens his mouth to offer a smug reply. He's cut short by lips smashing onto his. It's several rapid heartbeats before Charles leans into the kiss, _returning_ it, too stunned to react sensibly, so shocked, so dizzy,  _so happy to be alive_. 

Richard pulls away. Nonchalantly wipes his mouth. 

"You're buying tonight," he says, like he didn't just spend fifteen seconds snogging his best friend in full uniform next to two bored-looking police horses. 

"I'm the one who caught the bad guy," Inglis reminds him, since it's really the sole way for logic to reassert itself. 

"Yeah, and I'm the one who almost had a fucking heart attack over the thought of having to mail your mother your bloodied cap and badge with a condolence card reading 'sorry I let your son get killed because he was a fucking knucklebrained shitpiss who made his horse go  _vroom-vroom_ like he thought it was a car, with what I can only assume was the express purpose of charging straight into point-blank range of a speeding bullet, I don't know, ma'am, I'll be sure to ask him in Hell.'" 

Throughout this tirade, it occurs to Charles that he could shut Richard up by kissing him again. It also faintly occurs to him that oh, that's right, he  _could've_ died minutes ago. 

"Whoever's conscious at the end will buy, how's that?" he suggests. 

"Fine." Richard's gaze drifts to their horses, still fierce and sharply scrutinizing; Charles finds himself gulping. "At least give Delta an extra carrot, the poor bastard." 

Adrenaline, Charles rationalizes for a week. A spur-of-the-moment decision, high-impact yet inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Like punching a new colleague or chasing a criminal on a horse. But someday Inglis will look back and accept that in his heart, he already knew. 


	2. Chapter 2

“He jumped right into it, didn't he," Liz notes. She'd been expecting a peck on the cheek as a warm-up, at least. Maybe Richard developed a semblance of nuance with age. Or regressed, depending on how you look at it.

Inglis' eyes remain slightly glazed. “You could say that."

“And you went back to normal right after? Wrote it off as a friendly, bromantic makeout session?"

The haze of memory dissipates in a fresh wave of anger. “It was the late 80's, Liz, not a fantastic time for queer men around here,” Inglis snaps. “And you'll forgive us for being preoccupied with our existing areas of marginalization. I know you're young, but _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

“I'm sorry." Liz winces, cheeks burning with shame. “I didn't - ”

Inglis sighs. “Do you want to hear more? _Quietly?”_

“Yeah. If you don't mind,” she adds, quickly. She has no meetings scheduled for the rest of the afternoon. Anyway, if Finn didn't want her to speak to Inglis for a while, maybe he shouldn't have fucking gone behind her back.

It takes the Commissioner some effort to relax, traces of wariness still souring his disposition. “We kept working together...”

* * *

**2.**

Inglis had dreamt big from the start. He hadn't hidden it. In response, Sharon's eyes always glinted - the glint he recognised from his expression whenever he happened to glimpse his reflection mid-rant - but she'd awkwardly said that it was unlikely to happen for either of them. A different generation, she'd suggested. It could even be the next one. It was their job to pave the way. As years slip by and they continue to meet infrequently, she pinpoints the potential importance of this new thing, the Internet; Charles dismisses it as a novelty, a hyped-up tool.

Sharon's caution doesn't stop her from advancing. She's like a tightrope-walker who tells the crowd that the risk of falling is too great, all the while steadily putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes Charles suspects he's the only one paying attention to her steps. 

Richard is the first person who totally avoids voicing doubt at Charles' ambition. He builds it up and bolsters it. On patrols, they plan the future during idle moments, criticising their coworkers and the current higher-ups, analysing what needs to change and what needs to stay the same. There's sizable overlap between the two. 

“This is the most respect I’ve ever gotten on the job,” Charles grumbles, one dull afternoon. “And it’s all because I’m sitting on a fucking horse.”

“Nonsense, Charlie.” Richard grins at him wryly. “I’m sure the CS spray is a factor, too.”

A few minutes pass without incident or conversation. Charles has grown accustomed to lengthy bouts of silence, from the days that Richard isn't feeling nearly as talkative. 

“Actually, I've been thinking,” Richard begins.

Inside, Charles thrills at those three familiar words. Aloud, he prompts, "Yeah?”

“About horses.”

“Well, I should hope so.”

“Fuck off.” Charles laughs as Richard continues, “We've managed crowds of thousands with just six horses, with unarmed riders. Why do they command such respect? Because of their physical power? The fear that lurking beneath a docile domesticated animal, there's a beast?”

When Richard tilts his head questioningly, his hat gets skewed. Charles helpfully fixes it.

“No, we respect their image,” Richard concludes. “How they _look,_ more than how they act. Speed, weight, numbers and facts - the  _mechanics_ of their authoritative nature mean jack shit to the average person. We respect the stance and nobility we can see.”

“Still fear,” Charles claims. 

“Not entirely.”

“They can outrun every person on earth and kick their teeth straight through the back of their skull.”

“But they _don’t_ ,” Richard points out. “We don’t spend each waking second terrified of bloodthirsty horses hunting us down and killing us for sport.”

“Speak for yourself.” Charles gazes into the distance for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It's too bad he doesn't have Richard's propensity for passionately rattling off on the spot. “All right, do you want my opinion?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not all horses can stand their ground against a crowd. Some will get spooked, some will lash out. Our horses were selected and trained for a purpose. They do their duty without worrying about upsetting the herd. That's the nobility we sense - good training, but also part of their individual nature. It's what sets a police horse apart from a reject show jumper.”

Richard tilts his head again; Charles adjusts his cap again. “No horse comes pre-packaged with prejudice.”

“They do, by now. My Little Pony.”

“Jesus, Charlie, ponies aren't baby horses, they're a separate species.”

“There wasn't a fucking pony portion of training, I'm not expected to know that,” Charles objects. 

Eventually, the day dips into night, and they find themselves alone. Tension simmers beneath their companionable silence.

Richard says, “I've been thinking.”

“Christ, here we go.”

“The city never sleeps, so why should my resolve?”

“That's fucking awful.”

“Since this is the path I've chosen, I want to walk it to the very end,” Richard declares. “Whether that leads to a sky-high roadblock or a sheer drop off a fucking cliff or a gold-plated throne in the castle. I'll see it through.” He may not utter it aloud, presumably in case he jinxes it, but Charles can tell he's saying,  _I want the top job someday. I want to be Deputy Commissioner, then Head Commissioner, then Emperor of the universe or whatever the fuck I assume comes next._

“What if the path branches?” Charles asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Then I'll trust myself, the way I trust you and you trust me.”

Charles examines Richard's face, and emotion stirs in him. Affection. Rebellion. 

People are not strictly 'people' to Richard. They're tools, they're demons, they're ideals. On good days, he envisions benevolent ways to utilize them, what value they have to  _him_. On bad days, they become obstacles to surpass or destroy. It's not as sinister as it may sound - though it's playing with fire. Between them, Charles isn't sure who's in greater danger of being burned. 

Richard adds, “I'm taking you with me.”

Charles tightens his jaw, his stare challenging. “And what makes you think I can't get there on my own?”

“I know you will," Richard answers smoothly, almost disarming. Almost. “I'm saying we're tethered to each other until the end of the trek." It's a nice goal. Quite possibly unrealistic. Charles can't hide his skepticism well enough; Richard half-jokes, half-snaps, “Do you fucking want it in writing?”

“We can shake on it,” Charles offers.

Richard purses his lips, and Charles realises he's been watching them for the past minute. At some point, their horses have drifted closer. Shit. 

“Or...” Richard says, and stops talking as abruptly as he started.  _Shit._

(There is a long-term plan they've laid out, not on paper, but so vivid that Charles keeps it in his heart. It spans years. It doesn't mention compromise or loss. Charles wondered about the path diverging. It never occurred to him that the two of them could be separated.) 

This kiss is gentle. Peaceful. It feels incomplete. Richard seems to agree, because he follows it up with another, and another; Charles lets him, returns his kisses even gentler, the alarm bells in his head fading into distant sirens. He doesn't forget the world around them, or the nasty surprises inevitably waiting in the future. But with Richard, the future is more malleable. If Charles was dead-set on certainty and safety, he wouldn't have become a fucking police officer.

Ajax whinnies. Richard finally breaks contact in order to attend to her. Just like that, it's over. Charles adjusts his own cap and looks away.


	3. Chapter 3

“That's kind of sweet,” Liz says, once she's regained her voice. 

“Your approval is flattering,” Inglis replies dryly. “Do you want to record this conversation and send it to BuzzFeed? '10 Reasons to Attack the Metropolitan Police Service for Tokenism'?” 

“Sir, BuzzFeed has standards,” she protests, eliciting an all-too-familiar faint smirk and prolonged eye-roll. “It'd be '10 Reasons to Send the Metropolitan Police Service All the Virtual Hugs', caption: 'muh intersectional feels!', pronunciation theirs.” 

“I knew it was a good idea to keep you around.”

“You really liked each other,” she states, at a loss for how to phrase it better. “Like. Like-liked.” 

“Mmm. What tipped you off?” Inglis' head tilts to an angle of maximum condescension. “The matching horse figurines, the professional co-dependence, or the two decades' worth of romantic tension?” 

“I thought he might've compulsively kissed coworkers. Aides, tech support, janitors. Everyone except Tom, I guess.” 

“No, I was special.” His smile has teeth. “You know how it is.” 

“Not as well as you, apparently.” 

Inglis opens his mouth to retort, reconsiders, and snaps it shut with a clench of his jaw. “I suppose not,” he says.

Well. This is fun. Maybe the rest of Scotland Yard had swapped sordid conspiracy theories about the nature of her relationship with Richard. Why not make it even more uncomfortable?

“In September,” she begins, hesitation partially feigned, “you didn't expect...Richard to...” 

“Only in hindsight,” Inglis admits. “The affairs were news to me, but I wasn't surprised about his death after it sank in...so to speak. I had some warning. I think I always knew.”

“And you don't think you could've stopped him?"

The question had sagged heavy on her mind since Richard's death. It wasn't intended as an accusation, though the Commissioner's eyes blaze for a second. _Again_. Great. Nice fucking going, Garvey. 

Then Inglis lowers his gaze, shaking his head. “When he said you'd spike the shoplifting story, he'd probably already decided to _try_ , as a call for help. But something else must've pushed him over the edge.” He pauses. “Also so to speak.”

Liz has to swallow the lump that's formed in her throat. It's one issue to stare into the abyss and turn into it - staring into a crystal ball and glimpsing a possible future is another.

“Some warning,” she repeats. “Had he ever - ? Before that?”

The faraway look has returned, but too sharp to be truly distant, too cognizant. 

“He did,” Inglis says.

* * *

**3.**

On New Year's Eve, they find themselves on a rooftop. Alone. Charles may be smashed, but he remembers the trend he's noticed: get stuck with Richard during a vulnerable time, be kissed, have a burst of panic that subsides faster than he can examine it. It doesn't perplex him much anymore. It's yet another mildly irritating inevitability, comparable to hay fever or stepping in stray horse shit, emotionally.

Richard recently ended a tumultuous romance with a bad breakup, all personal ambitions temporarily stunted by a bout of self-loathing. Charles has been giving him space because, well, what can he do? They aren't the heart-to-heart and hugging type. They're the career-related banter and sudden kissing type. Try locating that in a relationship advice book.

A near-empty bottle smashes onto the floor, dropped by...Richard, Charles belatedly determines. He doesn't care to react beyond a confused blink. Richard climbs onto the parapet to gaze at the skyline. He extends his arm and grasps at nothing with a trembling hand, as if he can touch the lights. 

“Hey, come down,” Charles says, chiding, like he's addressing a child who's about to cause a public disturbance. “You might fall.”

Richard turns his head briefly, and Charles sees that he's _crying_.

“It's so beautiful,” he whispers.

At the moment, Charles is having supreme difficulty focusing on anything other than the centre of the back of Richard's head, so he can't verify that claim. 

“If I had to die...” Richard continues. 

“It'd be face-first on the streets of London,” Charles finishes. Now Richard whips his head around to face him at a speed that threatens to displace his footing, an eyebrow raised in an expression Charles can't quite read in his drunken state. “With a fucking bullet to the brain. Or thrown from a horse.”

“Or crushed by the weight of the world.”

“That'll be a mess. Don't fucking let that happen. Think of the paperwork.”

“Excellent pep talk, Charlie.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I actually didn't.” Tears spill, trail down Richard's cheeks. “Jesus fucking Christ! When were you planning to tell me? And this is how you do it? And what the hell did you mean by that, anyway? Do you mean - is it like with a woman? Or is it the kind where you'll slap me on the back and say I'm the best friend you've ever had and you want me to be the godfather to all your goddamn kids?”

“I don't know,” Charles replies, at length.

“You should fucking know, because blurting misinformed statements on impulse is  _my_ specialty, not yours, unless you want to fucking invade that, too.”

“That, 'too'? What else?” A long growl is the only response he receives. Charles laughs softly, sobering on the final note. “I've never been allowed to forget who I am, but I don't know what we are. Do I have to?”

“Fuck you,” Richard chokes. He wobbles, teeters - and finds his balance, unsteadily steps down from the edge in a stiff lurch. “Fuck you, and fuck your last-minute confessions.”

This time, Charles is the one who closes the gap between them in a few strides. This time, he's the one who grabs Richard by the waist and pulls him in to meet his lips in a blistering succession of kisses. 

Afterwards, hoarse with emotion, Richard asks, “What would you have done if I'd jumped?” He can't answer. The gravity of what almost happened hits him in the chest. “Jumped after me?”

Despite the lingering fog of intoxication, a single thing becomes clear: “That wouldn't have saved you.”

“No,” Richard agrees, sounding both sad and oddly satisfied, and kisses him again.


End file.
